Jacked Off
by Fayola
Summary: All Mirage wanted after returning from a long and rather unsuccessful mision was a shower and some recharge. Hound gives him a little something extra. Hound/Mirage luvins


Title: Jacked Off  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: plug'n'play smexings  
Summary: Mirage has bad day. Hound tries to fix it. Mirage smexes Hound.  
Notes: I'm a great lover of Hound and Mirage, but this is my first attempt at writing them. And it's SMUT. I've had no experience at both (well, a little with the smut, but this is the first complete-with-overload bit I've finished and dared to post) so I hope it's not too bad and that I'm not _totally_ made of phail.

* * *

Mirage was a rather level mech. Snooty, he could be, of course. Distant with others, certainly. And sometimes he came off as a bit cool. But he was a relatively even-tempered mech, and aside from Cliffjumper's weekly tirades about his loyalty, not much got to him, and his demeanor showed such. Instances in which he became extremely upset or angry were few and far between, but they were a spectacular thing to behold.

It was fortunate, in that case, that it was rather late at night and there were few bots roaming the corridors of the _Ark_ to witness the Towers mech in one of the biggest snits he'd been in since they'd arrived on Earth.

To say he was upset would have been an understatement. There were no words for how infuriatingly agitated he was.

He had just returned from a month long mission – an unsuccessful mission at that, one during which he gathered little information, none of which was related to what Jazz had ordered him to retrieve – a long period of time made longer by the fact that he had not recharged for one minute of it. Granted, a month was barely more than two orns, a doable length of time to remain online for most bots, but he had become spoiled since their arrival to Earth, enjoying the short recharge periods that came at the end of each shorter day. A month without had nearly driven him mad.

He was beyond tired. Tired had passed after the first week. Now his sensors, after being run constantly over such an unusual length of time, were over-stimulated. They were all on high alert, over-compensating for weary systems. Every sound, every light, every _movement_ was painful. On top of that, since recharging was out of the question, he'd been forced to consume more energon than usual to remain online. It left him constantly feeling the uncomfortable prickly sensation one experienced the day after getting over-energized. It made his paint crawl.

Finally arriving home had done nothing for his foul mood. He stormed through the _Ark_, muttering the darkest of curses he could come up with to himself. He was intent upon quickly cleaning himself up in the washracks and then collapsing in his berth until Jazz summoned him for a report. (He hoped his commanding officer was in an understanding mood and would make that time a few days from then.)

He slapped the control panel for the washracks, growling at the door when it did not open quickly enough for his liking. The room was empty, giving Mirage no one to yell at, so he snarled at the containers of solvent and cleanser he swiped from a nearby shelf.

"Stupid, slagging 'Cons," he growled. "Stupid, idiotic, imbecilic 'Cons and their Primus-fragging upgraded computer security systems!"

He turned on the water, which jetted out too fast and too hot. He winced, stepping out of the spray.

"And stupid washracks and their scrap automatic settings!" he snarled up at the showerhead.

He fiddled with the controls, movements too jerky from lack of recharge to fine-tune it to the exact setting he desired. With an outraged growl, he stepped back under the flow of water, resigning himself to simply be uncomfortable. And uncomfortable he was, each droplet of water pinging harshly off his tense armor, feeling like a million white-hot needles. The solvent he scrubbed across his chassis was no better, what was usually a pleasant tingle turning into a harsh sting, and the soft bristled brush he used to rub the cleaner around felt like steel wool.

There was no doubt about it. Mirage was downright miserable. But he pushed through the agony that was cleaning himself, trying to finish as quickly as possible so he could just get back to his quarters and finally rest.

"Mirage?"

The spy turned with a snarl, failing in his exhaustion to recognize the voice of his mate. The all too familiar shape of his frame in the doorway, however, was easier to identify.

"Hound." Mirage didn't even bother to try to make himself sound civil. "What are you doing here?"

Looking only mildly surprised at his lover's tone, the scout walked into the room and let the door swish shut behind him.

"Blaster commed me," he said in a neutral tone. "He's on monitor duty. Said he saw you come in looking… a bit peeved."

"What an astute sense of observation he has," Mirage scowled. "Prime ought to give him a promotion."

"Are you… alright?" Hound asked tentatively, inching closer to the irate spy. Mirage's scowl deepened.

"Do I _look _alright, Hound?" He turned back to face the washrack wall, resuming his self scrub-down. "Really, you ought to ask Blaster for lessons."

His over-worked sensors could detect Hound drawing ever closer to him, until the mech was just inches away. He stayed there a moment, hovering silently behind him, until a black hand reached out and took hold of Mirage's wrist, stopping his administrations.

"What do you think you are doing?" Mirage snapped, trying to jerk his arm free. Hound held fast. He leaned down, putting his lip components next to his mate's audio.

"Helping you," he said softly.

Fingers released their hold on Mirage's wrist, only to pluck the brush from his grasp and let it drop to the floor with a soft clatter. The same hand reached forward to carefully adjust the temperature and intensity of the water. What was a harsh and painful stream became a softer, almost soothing patter. The hand then grabbed a container of cleanser off the small shelf just below the showerhead, also snagging a soft cloth. Hound's other arm came around Mirage to grab the shammy, pouring some of the cleanser onto it.

"You just hold still," he ordered his lover gently, arms briefly tightening about Mirage in a hug before they disappeared behind him and set to work washing him.

Mirage was about to protest, about to complain that he was not a sparkling and could do it himself, thank you very much, but the instant Hound's oh so careful hands touched his tense and overly sensitive plating, all desire to argue left him. He did not know whether it was the gentle way in which Hound smoothed the cloth over him, or the soft texture of the shammy itself, or even the simple fact that it was Hound that was doing the touching, but he felt an instant trail of soothing relief along the wake of Hound's administrations.

Relief was not the only thing that came, however.

His sensors, already burning from sensation, instantly registered the new touch. It was such an intense variation from the pain they had been transmitting before, they did not know how else to catalog this new, wonderful feeling other than as pleasure.

The uncomfortable prickly feeling that had been a constant annoyance for the past few weeks did not disappear, but it morphed into the sweet, familiar tingling that often came with Hound's hands on his chassis. Mirage could not help the sigh that escaped his vents. The heady rush from the sensations was making him sway on his pedes. He would have leaned against his mate had he not currently been cleaning his back.

Hound's careful hands moved down, carefully running across transformation seams along his hip plating, then his legs. Mirage trembled slightly as the soft shammy was run along the inside of his thighs, almost teasingly. The hand not cleaning him came up to grasp his waist and hold him steady. Mirage's own black hand covered it, gripping on tightly. He off-lined his optics, willing his knees not to give out.

Soon Hound was rising from his knees, his hands going higher as well, reaching around Mirage's frame to brush across his abdominal plating. The spy sucked in a harsh gasp.

"Sorry," Hound chuckled quietly. "Know you're ticklish."

Ticklish was the farthest thing from what Mirage was feeling. Unfortunately, Hound didn't know that and the cloth was swiped across his sensitive stomach just once more before it moved on to his sides. The scout was thorough, making sure to wriggle his fingers into all the little purchases. Mirage knew somewhere in his processors it was to get all the collective gunk out, but that didn't stop his core temperature from shooting up a few notches. He had to bite his glossa to keep from moaning aloud.

The teasing was soon transferred to his chest and – oh! How _good _that felt, having that soft shammy run up and down the seam where his chestplates parted! He let his helm fall back, coming to rest with a _clunk!_ on Hound's shoulder. The scout took this as an invitation to lavish attention upon the noble's neck, running the cloth along his cables and tubing and – oh, that one spot, that one cable that always turned him to putty. He silently urged Hound to keep going, to keep lavishing this wonderful attention on his abused body, to put down the shammy and start using that talented mouth of his, to –

In his euphoric haze, he barely noticed that Hound's hands, save the one on his upper arm keeping him from toppling over, had left him, stopped their administrations and had turned off the water. Bad mood instantly returning at the loss of stimulation, Mirage's optics shot back on. He glared at the wall before him.

"Feel better?" Hound asked, giving Mirage's arm a gentle squeeze.

"If by better," Mirage snarled, whirling – well, stumbling – around to glare fiercely at his mate, "you mean all charged up and completely unsatisfied, then yes. Yes, I feel _loads_ better!"

Hound had just a brief moment to look thoroughly surprised before Mirage threw himself at the scout and brought their lips together in a crushing kiss.

Mirage's hands, clumsy from the combination of exhaustion and arousal, fumbled for his mate's hot spots, digging into wiring here, caressing a transformation seam there. Hound gasped against his mouth, allowing him to thrust his glossa past those parted lip components and tangle with the scout's. Mirage moaned as the sweet taste of his mate filled his senses, making his knees tremble.

"'Raj," Hound gasped, pulling away from the kiss. Mirage growled and brought a hand up to his helm to lead him back down, but Hound resisted. "'Raj, we're in the _washracks_."

"And I don't _care,_" Mirage hissed back. "I have gone without washing, without recharging, and without overloading for what has been perhaps the worst month of my life! I've had the first, I'll get the second in a minute, and right now – right _here_ – you are going to give me the third!"

Were Mirage not in such a state, he would have found the stunned look on Hound's faceplates to be rather amusing. It was a rather strange demand for Mirage – straight-laced, almost prudish Mirage who liked his interfaces quiet, simple, and in his own berth and don't suggest otherwise, thank you very much – to make. Overload him in a public area? Had he lost his CPU?

If he had, Hound didn't seem to mind, for after a brief moment of deliberation, he lowered his head and reengaged Mirage in a searing kiss, one Mirage was only too willing to deepen. Hound's dark hands cupped Mirage's faceplates lovingly for a moment before smoothing down to his shoulders, then his sides. Fingers once more were wriggling in gaps in Mirage's armor, this time in search of sensitive wires. Mirage's own hands were far from idle, one stroking a transformation seam along Hounds back, the other along his hip plating.

Hound broke the kiss, intakes already heaving, and turned his mouth instead to the cabling in Mirage's neck. The spy whimpered and tilted his helm, giving his access to that one cable, that one spot that –

"Nngh!" Mirage's hands desperately latched onto whatever part of Hound they had been caressing. Hound hummed against the cable in amusement, then went back to alternately nipping and suckling it.

"Would you quit with the fragging _teasing_ already!" Mirage managed to gasp, cooling fans working furiously to counter his rapidly rising body temperature. "Just jack into me!"

Hound took a moment to give his mate an incredulous stare.

"Since when do _you_, of all mechs, swear like some over-energized repair bot?" he demanded.

"Oh, shut up," Mirage snarled, pulling him back down for another kiss. Once he was satisfied he would stay there, Mirage's hands moved down to paw needily at Hound's interface panel. Without breaking their hungry kiss, Hound reached down and grasped his hands, pulling them up and wrapping them around his neck.

"Let me," he murmured. Mirage was about to protest, but Hound made quick work of getting both his own and his mate's panels open. Deft fingers pulled out Mirage's interface cable, twirling the length between two digits. A hoarse cry was ripped from Mirage's vocalizer. His arms tightened about his mate's neck, pulling him closer.

"Hound!" he moaned. The scout chuckled.

"Never heard you so vocal during a 'facing," he said with ill-disguised amusement. "I'm really liking it. You outta have bad days more often."

With that, he swiftly plugged Mirage's cable into his port, grunting lightly at the initial surge of energy that caused. Picking up his own cable, he gently ran the edge of his plug around the rim of Mirage's port, teasing more little whimpers and soft cries of pleasure from the spy.

"Hound," he gasped. "Hound, just – " His vocalizer cut off with a hiss of static.

"Just what, 'Raj?" he crooned into his lover's audio. "What to you want? Tell me…"

Mirage could do no more than give a static-laced cry, bucking against Hound, body desperately trying to complete the connection that the green scout was so teasingly denying him. He sent a burst of data over his end of the connection, sending Hound mentally reeling momentarily. But he did not relent.

"Just tell me what you want," he said, finger replacing his plug in circling Mirage's port. He prodded inward – another cry. "Just tell me, and I'll give it to you…"

"You!" Mirage finally choked out, optics flickering. "Want you! Nngh, wanna feel – uhn! – feel you!"

And with that, Hound shoved his plug into his lover's port, completing the connection.

Both cried out as the energy began surging back and forth between the pair of lovers. Hound was quick to send a burst of data and emotion over the link, one that had Mirage's knees buckling. The scout reached down and pulled him up by the aft, and Mirage obligingly wrapped his legs about his waist. Staggering under the combination of his mate's full weight and the stream of data and energy that was pulsing through him, Hound stumbled over to the wall, leaning the spy in his arms up against it. Once stabilized, he sent another burst of data as his mouth went to the sweet spot at Mirage's neck.

"Hooooouuund," Mirage moaned, long and low. Hound growled into his mate's neck.

Mirage sent a large packet of data and emotions over the link – thoughts of him, how he'd missed him while he'd been gone, how he'd longed to be in his arms, the love and affection he felt for him. Hound groaned, leaning heavily against his partner, responding in turn.

"Missed you so much," he murmured into Mirage's audio, sending his own longing over the link. Mirage keened, throwing back his helm and arching into the scout.

"Hound, please!" he begged, writhing in his arms. Hound, answering his lover's desperate plea, barraged his systems with a heavy stream of information, emotion, and all the energy he could muster.

Mirage overloading was one of the most beautiful sights Hound knew he would ever see, and this time was no exception. Faceplates contorting in pleasurable agony, Mirage's cries reached a crescendo, echoing off the washroom walls. His energy field slammed into Hound's, and the scout was sent into an overwhelming overload of his own. He gave a sharp cry, struggling to remain upright as they both rode the mutual climax.

They stayed like that for a moment, Hound still holding Mirage up against the washrack wall, letting their systems return to normal. Once his intakes had stopped heaving, Hound pulled his helm from where it rested on Mirage's shoulder to look at his beautiful mate.

Not to Hound's surprise, he was off-line.

Chuckling softly to himself, he disengaged both their interface cables, neatly storing Mirage's away before closing his panel, then doing the same for himself. With a quick shifting of limbs, Hound had his mate bridal style in his arms, and it was that way he carried his thoroughly exhausted – but thoroughly satisfied – mate back to their shared quarters.


End file.
